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“ While I stood stammering and staring a lean finger was 
pointed at me.” 


(See page 24 .) 





THE GREAT CAPTAIN 


A STORY OF THE DAYS OF 
SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 


BY 

KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON, 

Author of “The Golden Lily,” “The Queen's Page, 
“Her Father's Daughteretc. 


New York, Cincinnati, Chicago: 
BENZIGER BROTHERS, 

Printers to the Holy Apostolic See, 

1902, 








LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 


MAR 3 1904 

, Copyright Entry 

rKcc^. q-Ui cH' 

CLASS ~ . 


A. XXc. No. 
g- / if O 2- 

COPY 8 


r 

V4 


7 2 > 


2 (j* 0 


Copyright, 1902 

BY 

BENZIGER BROTHERS. 



• • « • • • • 

















CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I.—Of Myself, that Great Captain Sir 
Walter Raleigh, and how I became 


his Leal Man.7 

II.— The Apparition of the Monk ... 21 

III. —Of My Secret, the Lord Boyle, and 

Other Matters ..37 

IV. —The Dead Hand.52 

V. —Of a Strait Place and a Quiet Time 67 

VI. —The Treasure-ship. 83 

VII. — Our Last Years Together. 99 

VIII.—An Unravelled Thread.113 











THE GREAT CAPTAIN. 


CHAPTER I. 

OF MYSELF, THAT GREAT CAPTAIN SIR WAL¬ 
TER RALEIGH, AND OF HOW I BECAME HIS 
LEAL MAN. 

I never knew my father and mother, 
having been horn into a time like that of 
the great desolation foretold by the Scrip¬ 
tures. They were the days of what I have 
heard called the Rebellion of the Desmonds, 
when that great league was made against 
the power of Eliza, the English Queen, 
by the Irish princes, which went down in a 
7 



8 OF MYSELF AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN . 

red sunset of death and blood. Indeed I 
myself had starved, like other innocents, on 
the breasts of their dead mothers, had it not 
been for the pity of him I must ever regard 
as the greatest of Englishmen, albeit no 
friend, but rather the spoiler, of those of 
my blood and faith. 

It was indeed while the end was not yet 
quite determined, for although Sir James 
Desmond, the wisest and most skilled of 
their generals in the art of war, was dead, 
there was yet the Seneschal of Imokilly and 
other Geraldine lords fighting for their in¬ 
heritance and their country. It was on a 
day when Sir Walter Raleigh with a hand¬ 
ful of troopers was returning from a visit 
to the Lord Deputy at Dublin that he 
found me. He had expected no ambush, 
and rode slowly, being fatigued by his jour¬ 
ney, through the great woods to the Ford 
of the Kine. How the woods covered many 


OF MYSELF AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN . 9 


dead and dying, and as the Captain rode at 
the head of his men I came running from 
the undergrowth, a lusty and fearless lad of 
three, and held up my hands to the fore¬ 
most rider. I had as like as not been spit¬ 
ted on a trooper’s sword but that the Cap¬ 
tain himself, leaning from his horse, swung 
me to his saddle-bow. 

He had perhaps a thought of his own lit¬ 
tle Wat, by his mother’s knee in an English 
pleasaunce, for, as I have heard since, he 
talked with me and provoked me to confi¬ 
dence. Nor was I slow to answer all he 
asked, being a bright and bold child, which 
perhaps was the saving of me, since I flung 
an arm round the great Captain’s steel-clad 
neck, and perched by him as hold as any 
robin that is housed in the frost. 

But as we rode along in the summer even¬ 
ing, fearing no danger, though danger there 
was, for my lord the Seneschal of Imokilly 


10 OF MYSELF AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN. 

had word of our coming, and as we forded 
the river was upon us from the further hank 
with his kerns, three times our number. 
But the Captain rode at them with his sword 
drawn, slashing hither and thither, and 
sorely I must have hampered him, and much 
marvel it was that he did not loose me into 
the stream. But that he held me shows 
what manner of man he was, that being 
fierce and violent in battle he yet was of so 
rare magnanimity. Little lad as I was then, 
I remember to this day the cold of his steel 
and silver breastplate against my cheek. 

And when he had hewed his way through 
them and was on the further bank in safety, 
he looked back and saw one of his men, Jan 
Kneebone by name, dismounted in the 
stream and in peril. Then, setting me 
down gently, he rode back into deep water 
to his man’s deliverance, and having slain 
two kerns who had him in jeopardy he flung 


OF MYSELF AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN. 11 

him upon his saddle-bow and rode with him 
again up the steep bank. It was a great 
feat of arms, and might well have cost the 
English this most splendid soldier; yet I 
have heard Sir Walter say that the Desmond 
Lord of Imokilly might have slain him had 
he willed it. “And think not, little Wat,” 
he said to me years after, speaking upon 
that day, “ that chivalry departed from the 
world with the glorious pagan, Saladin; 
for in many places I have found it, nor least 
in this wild country of thine; and it is an 
exceeding good thing,” he added, “ that men 
will forget their passions amid the heat of 
battle, and will remember only that the 
enemy they fight against is brave.” 

Wat, he called me from himself, because 
he loved me, and after his little son. Indeed, 
he seemed in time to love me as fondly as 
any father; and while I was yet a little one 
and learning from him swordplay and fence, 


12 OF MYSELF AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN . 


horsemanship, and other manly arts, I be¬ 
gan to understand that amid all his splendor 
he carried sadness beneath it, and was a 
banished man. He had lost the Queen’s 
favor—not because he had enemies at court, 
for Eliza was not one to be misled by 
rumors or cunning, hut because he had 
clasped around the white neck of Mistress 
Throckmorton, a dame of honor, the milky 
carcanet of pearls the Queen’s vanity desired 
to adorn her leanness, which in time the 
Queen might have forgiven, if he had not 
privily married the same Mistress Throck¬ 
morton; for she would have hut one moon 
in the sky, and she liked not the gallantest 
man of her kingdom to he her dame’s sat¬ 
ellite. So he was become a soldier of for¬ 
tune, and since he might not have his lady 
or his little son with him in these wild 
times, they abode in his quiet English 
Manor-house, while his sword slashed a way 


OF MYSELF AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN. 13 

to fortune for them through the inheritance 
of the great, unhappy Desmonds. 

In later years, when I had become well 
acquainted with the character of my lord, 
it hath seemed to me that he was not one 
for marriage; for danger was his love, and 
he was homesick away from her smile. And 
yet no more tender lord than he to the Lady 
Elizabeth might he found, and he loved his 
little Walter greatly. 

But presently, the war being ended and 
the last Desmond Earl slain by a traitor in 
a cabin in the mountains, my lord sailed 
away from the harbor of Youghall to Lon¬ 
don, to the end that he might win permis¬ 
sion for another expedition in search of 
treasure, and so regain the Queen’s favor. 
By this time I was a tall lad, and was fain 
to go with my lord, hut this he would by no 
manner of means permit. I hated so to 
live my life without him, even for a time, 


14 OF MYSELF AND TEE GREAT CAPTAIN. 


that I had thought of hiding myself aboard 
his ship, the Bon Aventure, but the fear 
which I had of him besides my love held me 
back. I had never seen him angry with 
me, and I prayed that I never should, so 
I heard him in silence when he bade me 
stay. Taking me aside then, he said to me, 
lovingly: 

“ I wrong you not, Wat, because I go 
without you, for Queen’s favor is vain, and 
it may be I go to Traitor’s Gate. You are 
no meat for the Tower, lad.” 

Then I cried out that if he went to the 
Tower I should go with him; at which he 
seemed pleased, patting my shoulder with 
great gentleness. 

“It may be,” he said, “that I return 
again to this Irish exile I weary of. Or, in 
the greatest event of all, I shall fit out a 
fleet for the Spanish Main, and make the 
Dons stand and deliver. That would be 


OF MYSELF AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN. 15 

happiest for us, boy, for indeed I make but 
a bad port-sailor.” 

“ You sail in the Bon Aventure,” I 'said^ 
* it is of good omen.” 

“ It is indeed,” he replied, " and I thank 
you for reminding me of it.” 

He looked out to sea, where the English 
leopards flapped at the wind’s will on the 
mast of his ship, and I think I never saw 
such a longing in a man’s eyes: so great was 
it that my heart bled for him. I had 
thought perhaps that he longed so much to 
see the Lady Elizabeth and his boy. But he 
spoke, and I knew he was thinking of the 
free life of the rovers of the sea, not of that 
lady whom he so tenderly loved. 

"If we prosper,” he said, "we shall sail 
'for Guiana, and found there, who knows, 
another Virginia. The spoil of half a dozen 
fat galleons and a new country. These are 
things that even Gloriana need not disdain. 


16 OF MYSELF AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN. 


Yet Essex hath all her ear, and Essex is 
mine enemy.” 

“ If you succeed, my lord—” I began. 

“ If I succeed I shall send for you. If I 
am sent to the Tower there are certain mat¬ 
ters concerning you to which Master Rich¬ 
ard Boyle is privy, and which he will impart 
to you. But it may be I shall be sent back 
to rot here; if so, there is nothing more to 
be said.” 

So on a certain day of lusty summer my 
lord sailed away in the Bon Aventure, with 
Master Edmund Spenser, whose company 
had so greatly lightened his exile. The 
same carried with him two books of his 
poem, The Faery Queen , which he designed 
to have printed in London. He was bound 
to return, whether my lord came or not, for 
he had left at his Castle of Kilcohnour his 
lady whom he had married at Cork, and his 
young son. The same lady he made famous 


OF MYSELF AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN. 17 

forever by the most beautiful of marriage- 
songs, which thing I had come to know, 
young as I was, for my lord would have me 
a scholar as well as a soldier, and I was be¬ 
come a very excellent scribe, so that the 
fair copying of Master Spenser’s poems 
came to me. 

I remember my last glimpse of them ere 
the Bon Aventure sunk over the rim of 
ocean, and evening seemed all at once to 
settle on the world. My lord was wearing a 
suit of black velvet over white, very finely 
embroidered with seed-pearls. The plume 
of his hat was held in its place by a clasp of 
diamonds. Beside him Master Spenser, in 
his black, looked over-grave. But when did 
Sir Walter—whom I call here “my lord” 
out of the love and loyalty I bore him—fail 
to shine before all the world by the splendor 
of his apparel as well as by his manly beauty 
and the greatness of his deeds? 


18 OF MYSELF AND TEE GREAT CAPTAIN. 


After they had gone, set in the endless 
dusk of summer evening, I grew tired of 
wandering about the gardens, so strange and 
sad without their master. So I went within 
doors, where some one had set a starveling 
rushlight in the chamber that was my 
lord’s dining-hall, and there I sat me down 
with my Latin grammar and the Virgil my 
lord had given me. At this time I sat daily 
on the wooden benches of the College School 
at Youghall, and had my learning of an old 
clerk Sir Walter had summoned here from 
Devonshire to take the place of the doctors 
and singing-men who had gone with the 
Desmonds. But my heart was heavy, and 
my head, and I had pushed away from me 
untasted the supper a serving-wench had 
carried to me. 

Now all was very still in the house, so 
that the tap-tapping of a twig by the win¬ 
dow-pane seemed to me a little frightful. 


OF MYSELF AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN. 19 


although I was a boy of spirit. Outside was 
the black of an early summer night before 
the moon has risen, and going to the win¬ 
dow upon the tapping I could see no star 
for the myrtle boughs. Yet sure I was that 
were I outside the purple would be pierced 
by innumerable eyes of light, and I was 
greatly tempted to return to the garden. 
Indeed, out in the night there would be 
companionship, although every bird slept 
well within the boughs. It is the houses 
men build that breed these phantoms of the 
brain, and not the free air. But disregard¬ 
ing the temptation I went back to my book, 
knowing full well the pleasure it would give 
my lord to learn that I had been diligent in 
his absence. Wonderful it was that he was 
hardly less in love with learning than with 
adventure. Indeed a man of such parts 
was this knight and master of mine that 
there seemed to be nothing admirable in 


20 OF MYSELF AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN. 


which he did not excel. And if I am blind 
to his faults, even to this day when I repent 
me of certain share of mine in his adven¬ 
tures, let that he forgiven me, for surely I 
owed him all love and loyalty. 

As the night went I heard the scullions 
who had been disporting themselves in the 
town return one by one, and the bolting and 
barring of doors. The songs of the sailors 
which came up from the shipping in the bay 
fell off and ceased. Silence fell on the 
town, a silence as unbroken as that of the 
sleepers yon in St. Mary’s yard, and pres¬ 
ently drowsiness overcoming me I too slept. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE APPARITION" OF THE MONK. 

The room in which I had studied and 
now slept was that to the right hand as you 
entered the door of the Manor-house. It 
was lined stoutly with oak, and it was dark 
because, though it had two fair windows, 
they were much obscured by the myrtles my 
lord had planted, which had thriven exceed¬ 
ingly in this mild air. 

This room, as I have said, my lord used 
for a dining-hall. Else when he was within 
doors he sat in the oriel of the pleasant 
room overhead; and it was there that he and 

Master Spenser would sit and smoke or be 

21 


22 TEE apparition of tee monk. 

silent; and there, which is not to be forgot¬ 
ten, Sir Walter listened to The Faery Queen. 

For some reason or another this dining- 
hall, despite its purpose, seemed a place of 
little cheer. The Manor-house had be¬ 
longed to the warden of the college, and 
owed its construction to him; and it was 
built after the English manner, which need 
not be surprising, since the progenitors of 
those church and abbey builders, the Mun¬ 
ster Geraldines, were of English blood and 
race. Not only was the dining-hall in itself 
low and somewhat forbidding of aspect, but 
it smelt of earth and new graves, for all the 
generous wine and meats that had been con¬ 
sumed within it. The cause of the same 
my lord had never been able to determine, 
and it stayed, although the chimney roared 
with logs of ships’ timber, and the bright¬ 
ness, the good cheer, the wit and gayety that 
met there were enough to scare away any 


TEE APPARITION OF TEE MONK. 23 


thought of death or the earth that shall re¬ 
ceive us. 

I slept, I have said, and while I slept the 
moon had arisen. The low light of it filled 
the chamber when I awoke with a start, 
smelling the graves, and feeling very cold. 
On the myrtle tree without an owl hooted. 
The rushlight had gone out, hut this I 
hardly knew, only that an earthy wind, 
smelling of damp and mildews, blew about 
my face, and I was stiff from lying asleep 
upon my book. 

But this I noticed vaguely, for as soon as 
my eyes were well open a strange appear¬ 
ance in the room drew my gaze upon it. I 
was by this time a stout lad of some sixteen 
years, and accustomed to fear nothing, yet 
I will confess that the hair of my head stood 
up. The figure of a monk was in the fur¬ 
ther comer from me. I knew it to be a 
monk, because of the effigies, images, and 


24 TEE apparition of the monk. 

portraits in St. Mary’s Church and the 
library of the college. Further, I knew the 
apparition to he of a white friar. The cowl 
was over the face; the head was bent; a fold 
of white cloth hid the hands. The stature 
of the monk was exceedingly tall, and of a 
great leanness, as I could see where the belt 
of brown leather clasped the white gown 
about the middle. 

All this I saw clearly by the light of the 
moon, or was it by some unearthly light 
of which the figure stood the centre? I 
know not, only that I saw everything clear: 
and still the odor of graves was in my 
nostrils. 

While I stood stammering and staring a 
lean finger was pointed at me, so lean that 
I know not if flesh covered it, or if it were 
the fleshless finger of a skeleton. A voice, 
hollow and strange, came forth of the cowl. 

“ Son of the Geraldines,” it said, “ why 


THE APPARITION OF THE MONK. 25 


art thou here among their murderers and 
despoilers ? ” 

The vtfice constrained me to answer. 

“Alas,” I said, “I know not what you 
mean. I am a nameless hoy, a dead leaf 
drifted in the forests. Why do you call me 
a son of the Geraldines, unless it be that I 
come of the humblest of the clan?” 

“You are no kern’s son, Walter Fitz- 
maurice, but of a noble house. How is it 
that you eat the bread and run at the stir¬ 
rups of the Sassenach who is the destroyer 
of your race ? ” 

I stretched my hands imploringly to the 
cowled figure. 

“ He rescued me from death,” I cried; 
“ he warmed me with his love. He has 
taught me all a noble youth should know.” 

“ You love him? ” 

“I love him.” 

“ Listen, boy. They think they have de- 


26 the apparition of the monk. 

stroyed the Desmonds, root and branch, as 
a man might tread out under his heel a nest 
of vipers. Yet hope is not dead. The line 
of the Geraldines is not destroyed. Return 
to your own people and leave this evil 
knight.” 

"Alas, I cannot,” I said, " for I love him.” 

" The blood of your kin is red on his 
hands.” 

"And yet I love him.” 

"He and his freebooters have wasted 
the country that was the portion of your 
fathers. Whom he spared to slay famine 
and pestilence have slain.” 

" I should have died of the hunger,” said 
I, " had he not delivered me.” 

"And you will follow him? ” 

" I will follow him.” 

" Wherever he goes ? ” 

" To death.” 


" To death and evil. Very well, Walter 


THE APPARITION OF THE MONK. 27 

Fitzmaurice, of the race of Desmond, then 
your kindred's blood be on your hands, as 
they are on those for which you have held 
basin and ewer that they might wash. 
Water will not wash them clean, nor yours 
that share in the stain. He shall die by vio¬ 
lence as he has slain many another—and as 
for you, what penance, what fast and prayer 
shall suffice to wipe out your sin? You 
have chosen, Walter Fitzmaurice Fitzgerald. 
Take care that you have not chosen for¬ 
ever." 

The voice rose in a shriek of menace, and 
I caught sight of burning eyes under the 
cowl. Suddenly through the hooting of the 
owl in the myrtles there rang, shrilly as a 
trumpet, the crowing of a cock. The wind 
from the grave rose in my nostrils and filled 
me with a great terror. I turned giddy and 
swayed hither and thither, and the room 
went up and down under mv feet. 


28 THE apparition of the monk. 

The next thing I knew was that the snn 
was in the room, and I was lying with my 
cheek on the open page of the Virgil. 
Nothing was changed in the room since last 
night, except only that the rushlight had 
dwindled to a pool of cold fat; but how long 
it had been out I could not gauge. 

Slowly the happenings of the night came 
back to me; but now in the warm daylight 
who thought on ghosts and goblins, or was 
afraid of them if they came? Where the 
owl had hooted over night a blackbird was 
singing, bold and bright. The lawn of the 
Manor-house was under dew. As I looked 
a peacock spread Ms tail in the sun, and his 
more sober mate stood to admire him. 

Sitting there I rubbed my eyes. Why, I 
had awakened just as I had fallen asleep, 
worn out with the sorrow of loneliness, and 
the trial to fix my discontented thoughts 
upon my book. T stood up and caught sight 


THE APPARITION OF THE MONK. 29 

of myself in a mirror. Then I realized that 
it is ill to sleep full-dressed. I was pale, and 
my hair strayed in disorder. My doublet 
looked as if I had had the habit to sleep in 
it, and my cloak was awry. I had been no 
sight to please my lord, who loved dainti¬ 
ness, and observed it himself in the strang¬ 
est circumstances. 

I would down to the Port-side and bathe 
in the morning waters. But ere I did that, 
remembering the dream or vision of the 
night, I went towards that place where I 
had seen the monk and carefully examined 
the same. But nothing there was to give 
me clue. The room was stoutly panelled 
with oak, every panel as like to his brother 
as two peas. Yet in that corner of the 
room there was one thing that made me lin¬ 
ger, for the smell of earth, it seemed to me, 
was there stronger than elsewhere. 

I sniffed and smelt like a terrier after a 


30 THE APPARITION OF THE MONK . 

mouse; but sniff and smell as I might I 
found nothing. I was no stranger to slid¬ 
ing panels and the like, at least by hear¬ 
say, but press and push as I might nothing 
came of it, so that at last I was fain to 
desist. 

As I made my way to the water-side in 
the glorious morning my thoughts were full 
of the night’s encounter. If it had been no 
dream but a true happening I did not doubt 
now, with the sun risen, that the monk was 
no ghost but a living man, albeit a spare 
one, for I recalled his lean finger, and the 
burning eyes set in the hollow cheeks. His 
words had been verily human, not ghostly 
at all: and had I been minded to leave my 
great lord whom I loved, had he not been 
ready to bear me away with him? Either 
the thing was a fantasy of a dream, every 
part of it exceedingly sensible, and one part 
following another as I have not known it 


THE APPARITION OF THE MONK. 31 


in dreams, or else it were true, and he a 
living man who had stood before me last 
night. 

One thought made my heart leap up with 
a sharp throb of pleasure. The monk had 
said I was noble—I, who had come from 
none knew where, a nameless youth and 
treated courteously only because I was 
dear to my lord, and myself very sharp in 
a quarrel and adroit in the practice of 
arms. 

After I had bathed and lain to dry in the 
sun I returned back hungry as a hawk. In 
the blessed sun all was different from last 
night. My lord would return, and would 
bear me away to court, and presently we 
should have letters of marque, and should 
go sailing on the Spanish Main in search 
of good fighting, salted with doubloons 
and pieces of eight; and presently should 
make for the Treasure Islands, and find 


32 THE apparition of the monk. 

there, as I imagined, jewels as large as 
plums, and gold and silver in great portions. 
For I had read Maundeville and other trav¬ 
ellers, and had magnified in my credulity 
even the marvels they had told. I knew, 
too, that my lord had brought home to the 
Queen’s Majesty a necklace of pearls whereof 
each stone was larger than a cherry. And 
we had heard of Guiana that the very sands 
of the seashore sparkled with gold and sil¬ 
ver, and that in the workings the old inhab¬ 
itants thereof had made, that they might 
build their heathen temples, the walls were 
of gold, while the idols were crusted with 
jewels so that no man might look on them 
without winking. 

So much in the sunlight. And yet again 
I had a cause for joy and pride because 
the monk had declared me noble. How to 
prove it I knew not, hut resolved that when 
my lord was come hither again I would tell 


THE APPARITION OF THE MONK. 33 


him all, and he would somehow unriddle me 
the secret and I should he no longer name¬ 
less. 

My breakfast I had beneath the shade of 
Sir Walter’s myrtles, where he had made 
his favorite seat. It was brought thither by 
that good Sukey who had nearly drowned 
my lord the first time she beheld him 
smoking that weed called tobacco, which 
he had brought from his settlement in 
Virginia. For she conceived him to be 
on fire, and half-drowned him that she 
might put him out. I had my white man- 
chet and roast beef and flagon of ale, and 
had a fine hunger for it after my morning 
swim. 

But when it had all vanished I strolled 
away to the stable-yard, where Gregory 
Dabchick rubbed down one of my lord’s 
horses, and hissed between his teeth as is 
the manner of ostlers in the doing. He was 


34 THE apparition of the monk . 

a shock-headed fellow, of slow wits, but 
honest, and loved my lord. 

"It be lonely, Master Wat,” he said, 
“ since the master be gone.” 

“ Gregory Dabchick,” said I, “you were 
of Sir Walter’s following the day the Sene¬ 
schal of Imokilly set upon him at the Ford 
of the Kine.” 

“Ay,” he said, grinning, “and Jan was 
spilt in the water. He got up dripping like 
a fish, and when the Captain haled him to 
dry land, and he would mount his beast he 
overleapt him and a good horse galloped 
into the forest and so became the goods of 
the Irishry. I wish,” he added, “ that Mar¬ 
gery May, at home in pleasant Devon, 
might have looked on Jan then.” 

“I have nothing to do with your jeal¬ 
ousies,” I said, as haughty as though I were 
my lord’s son. “ But tell me, Gregory, do 
you remember me that day? ” 


THE APPARITION OF THE MONK. 35 


“A brown babby, as fat as ever I see/’ 
Gregory answered, still rubbing down his 
horse. “And as near being spitted by Dan’l 
Drewe as ever I wish to see. I never liked 
that work myself, killing o’ babes and suck¬ 
lings, and fair women, or leaving the babe 
to die on its mother’s breast. ’Twere 
lucky for you, Master Wat, them that 
starved in the forest did not eat you, ere 
ever you came the way o’ Dan’l’s mercy. 
Eh, what a fat one you were! ” 

“But a comely, Gregory?” I asked anx¬ 
iously. “A noble child? Was I that? And 
clad in silk and fine woollen, as became my 
condition?” 

“Why, no, Master Walter, but a fat, 
brown babe; eh, so fat! And nought but 
rabbit-skins to cover you. You had been 
good eating for them in the forest.” 

“You are rude and dull, Gregory,” said 
I, leaving him in dudgeon. As I looked 


36 tee apparition of the monk. 

back I saw that he had come to the stable 
door and stood watching me with a gaping 
mouth. Plainly there was nothing to be 
learned from Gregory Dabchick. 


CHAPTER III. 

OF MY SECRET, THE LORD BOYLE, AND 
OTHER MATTERS. 

In the autumn of that year my lord came 
back, and in my joy at seeing him again I 
hardly felt that he was sad. The Lord 
Essex had prevailed against him with the 
Queen and he was returned to exile, al¬ 
though one of his ships had brought in 
a Spanish galleon worth fifty thousand 
pounds. It must be remembered of him 
that his passion for discovering the un¬ 
known worlds swallowed up all the treasure 
he was able to discover; so that the sea was 
never without his ships, and one expedition 
hut led to another. 


37 


38 OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS. 

Had he been differently framed this sea¬ 
son at Youghall had been happy enough. 
For now there was no fighting to be done 
he led that quiet and pastoral life which 
might have won him Master Spenser’s title 
for him, The Shepherd of the Ocean. He de¬ 
lighted himself by planting the strange 
seeds and roots he had brought from the 
ends of the earth and seeing them thrive. 
All his garden ventures were fortunate. 
The kindly Irish soil suited well with the 
tobacco, the myrtle, and the fuchsia. At 
Affane, a little way up the Blackwater, he 
had his orchards, where already the cherry 
grew abundantly. There, also, on sunny 
banks, he sowed in long rows a strange fruit 
called the potato, whereof the fruit is in the 
earth, and the leaves above it, and a very 
pleasant fruit to eat when well boiled, being 
of a sweet flouriness within. 

Another fruit from the Indies which he 


OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS. 39 

planted at Affane was called the tomato—a 
great, smooth-skinned, scarlet fruit, over- 
heavy for its branches, and of a strange 
half-sour flavor, which yet grew on one in 
the eating. Another seed brought him by 
his captains was that of the clove-gilly¬ 
flower, or wall-flower, a most sweet-smelling 
plant; and the cedar also he planted. 

He was as much set upon gardens as upon 
adventure and the search for new countries. 
Those of his captains who had returned had 
brought with them charts of the lands in 
which they had sailed, together with long 
reports concerning the inhabitants, their 
manner of living, their food and pursuits, 
the beasts and birds, the plants and ore, 
and all such matters; over which my lord 
would sit and pore in the long winter 
evenings, by the fire of driftwood, and 
smoking his long pipe. And sometimes 
he would talk with Master Spenser con- 


40 OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS. 

cerning them; but more often their talk 
ran on poetry and the arts. Master 
Spenser was working at the later books of 
The Faery Queen , and had written also a 
very pretty pastoral entitled Colin Clout’s 
Come Home Again. Nor was my lord’s ad¬ 
mirable pen silent. I went to and fro al¬ 
most as a son; and I can see my lord now in 
some gallant apparel, for he knew not what 
it was to be slovenly, leaning back in his 
great chair, and reading from the manu¬ 
script in his hand that lament he made for 
the death of the stainless knight, Sir Philip 
Sidney, slain then at the battle of Zutphen: 

England does hold thy limbs that bred the same; 

Flanders thy valour where it last was tried; 

The camp thy sorrow where thy body died ; 

Thy friends thy want; the world thy virtue’s fame. 

Alas, if but Sir Walter had been content to 
be poet and gardener; but whereas the one 
part of him was content the other tugged at 
his heart-strings so that he was not happy. 


OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS. 41 

In gardening he had no rivals except the 
Dutch, that great little republic of the 
water, since as famous as England herself 
for great battles and adventures by sea. 

Now, quiet as the time was, and I was 
often alone with my lord, it was long before 
I found courage to speak to him of my birth. 
I know not why I was so wary in approach¬ 
ing it, hut somewhere in my heart I had a 
warning that it would be unwelcome matter 
to him; so that often the words rose to my 
lips and fell silent before I could say them. 
It was indeed close upon a year from the 
time I had seen the monk that at last I 
dared to touch upon the subject. It was 
one evening when we had been gardening 
together, and tired after that pleasant toil 
we sat beneath the myrtle trees. My lord’s 
brow for a little while was unfurrowed with 
care, and his eagle eyes looked at me soft¬ 
ened through the mists of his smoke. 


42 OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS. 


“ My lord—” I began, and then could go 
no further. 

“ What is it, Wat?” he asked kindly. 

“ My lord, I am troubled about the ques¬ 
tion of my birth. To be nameless where 
every one hath a name is no light matter to 
bear.” 

“Hath any one reproached you?” he 
asked, and his eyes flashed. 

“If any hath I should not have conie 
even to you for redress,” I said, fingering 
my sword. 

“Ah,” he said, and he looked well pleased. 
“There spoke no nameless boy!” 

I breathed hard at the thought of what 
his speech meant. I was in act indeed to 
ask him if I were truly a Fitzmaurice and of 
noble birth when his next words held me, 
and, as it proved, the silence between us 
was to last to the edge of the grave for one 
of us. 


OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS. 43 

“ Be content, boy, for a little while,” he 
said, and his voice was of great sweetness. 
“ Yon are no nameless child; but let it be 
my secret for a time. In time I shall reveal 
it. If I told yon now it might mean that 
we should part company.” 

“ Never that,” I said. 

“ Never that, I pray,” he rejoined, add¬ 
ing—“ because I love you, Wat.” 

Then after a few minutes of silence he 
went on: 

“Your secret is left to no such blind 
chance as may befall such an one as I. If 
aught happen to me, Master Boyle holds it 
safe, and will reveal it in proper time.” 

“ You will not tell me? ” I broke out. 

“ To have it known would bring me some 
steps nearer the Tower,” he said, “ and I 
wend that way already.” 

“Then keep it silent forever,” I cried 


out. 


44 OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS, 

“ Nay; that would be hardly fair to you. 
Besides, you forget that Master Boyle hath 
it.” 

“I like not Master Boyle.” 

“ Nor do I, overmuch, Wat. He is one 
of your still, secret men, with the lawyer’s 
craft and cunning. What should there he 
between us?” 

“I hate his peaked face and his yellow 
eyes, and the way he hath of watching 
you and peering like a cat that sees in the 
dark.” 

“You are hard on Master Boyle, Wat. 
There is too much of the lawyer in him, and 
he treads soft as a cat. Yet there is a man 
behind his greed and his cunning. He is 
better framed for times like these than such 
an one as I. I could never walk warily.” 

“ He has your secret and can use it 
against you.” 

“He would do me no more harm than 


OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS. 45 

beggar me if he might so enrich himself. 
My head would be no use to him, little 
Wat.” 

“ J Tis a poor warranty for holding a se¬ 
cret,” said I, bitterly. 

“I am well-disposed to Master Boyle,” 
my lord went on. “He is a man of sub¬ 
stance, Wat, and a useful friend for one like 
myself, who can keep nothing. We shall 
not pluck the jewels from the gold-trees of 
Guiana without money and ships. I am 
nearly sucked dry, and the Queen hath lost 
faith in me.” 

Then I knew that my lord was not so 
contented as he had seemed of late, and that 
further voyages were afoot. In the joy and 
excitement of the prospect I forgot to fret 
about my namelessness. Besides, my lord 
knew that I was noble; and Master Boyle 
knew it, and treated me with a consideration 
which should have won my regard if it were 


46 OF MY SECRET AND, OTHER MATTERS. 

not that I distrusted his dealings with my 
lord. 

And as the autumn of that year came on 
I noticed that my lord ceased to care for his 
gardens and orchards and plantations, and 
would he forever poring over maps and 
charts, and had long conversations with the 
master of the Bon Aventure, which good 
ship lay yet in Youghall Harbor, and the 
master did seem nigh as weary of idleness 
as Sir Walter himself. And sometimes he 
had Master Boyle privily. Indeed, though 
I speak of him as Master Boyle, His from old 
habit; for about this time he had been 
created my Lord Boyle for his services to 
the Queen’s Majesty in the better govern¬ 
ance of Ireland. 

At last the word came that we were to 
sail; and it was as if the quiet, sleeping town 
of Youghall had started awake. Such a 
burnishing of arms and armor; such a get- 


OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS. 47 

ting out of old materials of war; such a pol¬ 
ishing of decks and making of sails and 
mounting of guns on the good ship Bon 
Aventure as never was known. All day long 
the singing of the sailors in the harbor 
floated to us through the still air. And my 
lord’s swarthy face smiled once again as I 
had known it when I was a little lad, before 
he was like a led eagle that is chained be¬ 
yond hopping a little way. 

My Lord Boyle had found us the funds; 
so much I knew, but liked him no better. 
The evening before we were to sail there 
was a great banquet, and many gentlemen 
came even from so far off as Dublin to wish 
the Great Captain Godspeed. We were to 
sail at blink of the morning star, and there 
was to be no sleeping for us till we were on 
shipboard. Never have I seen my lord but 
once so magnificently clad. His doublet 
was of white silk, so sewn with diamonds 


48 OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS. 

that the silk was hardly to be seen. His 
hose were of white silk, his trunk-hose of 
silk with slashings of gold. Over one shoul¬ 
der he wore a short cloak of yellow velvet 
clasped with diamonds; and the rosettes of 
his shoes were a blaze of diamonds. Seeing 
his face in the midst of such splendor I 
marvelled how the Queen could harden her 
heart against him—for never have I seen 
him in any assemblage, however honorable, 
that he did not make the other gentlemen 
seem mean and dull beside him. 

When the gayety was at its highest and 
he feared not to be missed, I saw him slip 
from the table with my Lord Boyle, and re¬ 
tire with him into the oriel. The banquet 
had been set in the oriel-chamber because it 
was lighter and more spacious. 

When my lord had left the table I too 
went away. Looking at the horologe my 
lord had given me, I saw that it lacked yet 


OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS. 49 

two hours of the time when we should he 
aboard. 

I went down stairs to the lower chamber, 
which was dark and silent. Once more I 
thought I should endeavor to find the secret 
way through which the death-damp came, 
and my midnight visitor of more than a 
year ago. If he had sought me since he had 
not found me, for I had avoided being alone 
there since that night. 

There was neither moonlight nor rush- 
light in the room, so that I could only grope 
with my fingers for the secret the panel 
must contain. For some time I groped in 
vain. Then my nails seemed to have found 
a crack in the wood, a mere notch in which 
they fitted. It gave me no promise, for the 
oak had warped here and there, and had left 
a few furrows. I was sure I had been over 
all the place before, yet now as I drew a 
little way the whole panel began to move. 


50 OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS . 


I did not know then, nor could I see, the 
cunning by which that door was devised so 
that none should discover it. I have said 
that the chamber was quite dark. 

Feeling now before me with my hands, I 
found a vacant square wide enough for one 
to creep through. Through it the wind 
blew strongly, and it was a cold, earthy, evil¬ 
smelling wind, such as I knew full well. 
Where might it lead? There was a report 
amongst us that the house had secret ways 
to the harbor; but it was no honest sea- 
wind, however confined and far from its 
source, that blew my way, but something 
far more villanous. 

I know not how it was that I seemed to 
forget that in less than two hours we must 
embark. The present adventure held me to 
the exclusion of all else. I stepped within 
the narrow passageway—crept within it, for 
I had to go on hands and knees. I had no 


OF MY SECRET AND OTHER MATTERS. 51 


light nor aught else to guide me; but if I 
thought at all it was that if the monk could 
come this way in safety, I could go as he 
had come. But to leave a gaping panel was 
not in my thoughts. Having entered I 
drew the panel to. Then feeling with my 
hands I came upon a lock. Had I moved 
it by my touch, or had it been left unlocked 
of design? There was no time for answer¬ 
ing of riddles, and having pushed the panel 
to I turned to pursue the adventure. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE DEAD HAND. 

After a little I found that I could stand 
upright in the passage. Stretching up my 
hands I could feel a solid roof above my 
head. The walls on either side of me were 
of earth, held back by stout balks of timber. 
If one were to give way the passage had 
been a grave indeed; hut so far as I could 
feel with my feet the clay had not fallen at 
all. Else indeed there could not have been 
so much air in the passage as to give me 
breath; and I breathed freely enough, albeit 
with a certain oppression, and a loathing of 
the dank smells. 

For a time the passage went down into 
52 


THE DEAD HAND. 


53 


the bowels of the earth as it seemed to me. 
I guessed by the direction it took from the 
dining-hall that it must grope under the 
graveyard—and thinking on this I realized 
how that indeed the wind that blew from it 
was a wind of death. And at that time I 
was too ignorant and too vain to rebuke my¬ 
self by the thought that this was a burying- 
place of saints. 

Presently my foot stumbled against a 
step, and much relieved I was to find on 
ascending it that there was another step and 
yet another; for I liked not this burrowing 
among graves like the mole; and the steps 
seemed to promise a speedy end to my jour¬ 
ney. Taking them in the dark there 
seemed to me a prodigious number of them; 
yet I was not gone very far when I per¬ 
ceived agreeably a lightening and sweeten¬ 
ing of the air. I could have taken but a 
little while in coming, for I had met with 


54 


THE DEAD HAND. 


no obstacles; yet it seemed long since the 
time I had plunged into that pit of black¬ 
ness ere I came up against a stout door, with 
a grating in it, designed no doubt to give 
air to the passage. 

To my great joy it was held only by a 
latch, and even before I had made this 
happy discovery I felt the sweet air of 
heaven blow into my face; and I think I 
never before knew how sweet it tasted. 

Undoing the latch and drawing the door 
to me I stepped within a stone tower. The 
moon had arisen on the eastward side of 
the tower, and looking through the crum¬ 
bling lancet window I saw below me, serene 
and beautiful, the quiet, terraced graveyard 
of St. Mary’s. 

I could have laughed aloud to think that 
the journey had seemed to me so long. In 
truth it had occupied some five minutes, as 
I discovered, holding my horologe to the 


THE DEAD HAND. 


55 


m-oon, and had not occupied so long if it 
were not for my groping and pausing. 

But the floor was solid under my feet. I 
had to think a minute before I knew where 
I was. I was in that blind tower of St. 
Mary’s to the eastward corner, in the base¬ 
ment whereof were deposited the brooms 
and pails for cleaning of the church. 

Playing hide and seek therein with a 
boy’s irreverence I had marvelled why, since 
the tower was blind—nothing but a roof of 
stone above the chamber—that they should 
have troubled to pierce it with lancets like 
any honest belfry. The upper portion of 
the tower was in ruins, as you could see 
from the graveyard without. Ah, and so 
the blind tower had its uses; as a hiding- 
place it might be for some one who had 
lived in the Manor-house in old wild days. 
For, as to any manner of egress from the 
tower, that I could not see at all. 


56 


THE DEAD HAND. 


The chamber where I stood was full of 
the drifted leaves and the nests of birds. 
Except for the shaft of light from the 
lancet it was in blackness, and I began to 
wonder if the tower went no further. 

I groped about the walls, however, till I 
came upon a staircase, which went up, not 
in the middle, as is usual in towers, hut at 
one corner, so that each story formed a 
room. 

’Twas three stories’ climb to the upper 
room. Here it was that the ruin had be¬ 
fallen the tower; for where the lancet had 
been there was a great gap, and somewhat 
of the roof had fallen away. 

I was now clear of the low trees, and the 
half-veiled moon looked within the cham¬ 
ber. Then I saw to my amazement that at 
the side of it, yet roofed over, there was a 
bed, a chair, a table, all of the rudest. But 
little of this I saw till afterwards, for on the 


TEE DEAD BAND . 


57 


bed lay the figure of that monk who had 
spoken with me, now nearly fifteen months 
ago. 

His face was in shadow, yet I never 
thought for a moment that he slept. One 
lean hand dangled from his great sleeve 
over the side of the bed; it hung helplessly; 
and young as I was I had looked on death 
often enough to know that this was the 
hand of the dead. The habit was composed 
decently about the figure. Either the monk 
had so composed himself for death or he 
had had some companion who had fled away 
leaving him to the eye of heaven. 

Standing there, a great awe and compas¬ 
sion fell upon me. Something of yearning 
and tenderness afflicted me as though the 
dead man had been of my blood: the tears 
rushed from my eyes, and I trembled so that 
I was forced to my knees; yea, as though 
invisible hands had bent me. I knew little 


58 


THE DEAD HAND. 


of praying, but something of wordless peti¬ 
tion to the Great Father of us all stirred in 
my dull and proud spirit. In that moment 
I had indeed the heart of a child. 

When I had arisen from my knees I went 
to the side of the pallet and looked upon the 
sleeper’s face. In the shadow it gleamed 
like polished ivory, and as I looked the 
moon, climbing higher, touched the still 
mouth with a sweet and sanctified light, 
making it as though it smiled. I touched 
the hand that swung by the side of the pal¬ 
let. It was scarcely cold. I knew not how 
I thought of such a thing, except that I was 
familiar with the knights and ladies who 
sleep in stone in St. Mary’s Church, but I 
composed the sleeper’s hands in the manner 
of Christ’s cross upon his breast; and after¬ 
wards turned away from the patient, smil¬ 
ing mouth like one who hath sinned and 
been forgiven. 


THE DEAD HAND. 


59 


Then I did what I believed he would have 
me do: I made a search for any letters and 
papers he might have left; for I could not 
think he had left me ignorant of what he 
would have me know. I searched busily; 
and there were not many places wherein to 
look. There was nothing anywhere. But 
my search was not yet over till I had exam¬ 
ined the monk’s person. I went back to his 
side, and with a prayer to him for forgive¬ 
ness, I groped gently in his habit for any¬ 
thing in the nature of papers, and doing so 
I felt his body to be by wasting scarcely 
greater than a child’s. Yet ’twas not star¬ 
vation, I knew, for a loaf of bread and a 
pitcher of water stood on the table. 

I had not far to seek. The papers were 
within the folds of his habit, where they met 
upon his breast, and were confined with the 
claspings of his leathern belt. 

I drew them forth and went to the full 


60 


THE DEAD HAND. 


flood of the moonlight. By it I read the 
superscription: 

“ To Walter Devereux Fitz-Hugo Fitz- 
Theobald Fitz-Maurice ”— 

As I read it my heart leaped up. What a 
proud name it was, and telling of a glorious 
ancestry! 

“—commonly known as Walter Munster, 
the ward and page of Sir Walter Raleigh.” 

When I had deciphered so far the tower 
seemed suddenly to rock. It was the great 
clock in the neighboring tower striking of 
midnight; and I had yet to ford the passage¬ 
way between the graves! Already I might 
have been missed. I read no more, hut 
thrust the papers within my breast. Then 
I bent and kissed the hands of the monk, 
feeling again that rush of softness, and as 
I kissed the hands I noticed the great string 
of beads which fell from the girdle, and that 
too I kissed, and the crucifix dependent 


THE DEAD HAND . 


61 


from it; and these things I did blindly, hav¬ 
ing then a hard and ignorant heart, but 
being compelled I knew not how. 

Then I stole from the tower-room and 
again down the winding staircase; but first 
I had drawn the cowl over the face and hid 
the hands and feet in the folds of the habit; 
and so left him to quietness and the night. 

I made the return passage without any 
mishap; and though a fear assailed me on 
the way lest I had locked myself within by 
closing the door, there was no ground for it, 
for the panel opened simply enough, and 
was indeed secured by a bolt on the passage 
side; which no doubt had prevented my find¬ 
ing the opening before. For either the 
monk had left it undone now by design, or 
being surprised by his last sickness, or else 
a companion or companions of his had fled 
the house-way while we slept, leaving the 
door unbarred. Yet I had seen no sign of 


62 


THE DEAD HAND. 


any other inmate of the tower save one; 
that is of visible folk, for I doubt not there 
were others, ministering and invisible. 

So I returned as I had come and went 
hastily to the banquet-hall. As I entered 
my lord and the Lord Boyle were returning 
slowly to their places. I caught a word of 
their speech. “You will remember the 
trust,” said my dear lord; and I knew not 
it was of me they were talking. “ Yea,” 
said my Lord Boyle, and showed his yellow 
teeth; “ let it be in my hands, or else when 
Jamie succeeds some Scot will have it.” 
And then he laughed, rubbing his lean hands 
together. 

Then my lord observed me, and calling 
me to him he put his hand upon my shoul¬ 
der and looked at me with surprise. 

“ Why, Wat,” he said, “ what spider’s nest 
hath caught you? ” 

I looked down then at my brave apparel, 


THE DEAD HAND. 


63 


and was confused to find that it was gray 
with dust and cobwebs from my journey. 

“ He hath been ratting,” said my Lord 
Boyle, “ and hath pursued the quarry even 
within their holes.” 

“It matters less,” said my lord, “since 
it is the hour to put on soberer attire. Be 
in good time, Wat,”—and so saying he re¬ 
leased me. Then I hurried to my chamber 
in the roof, and was right pleased that I 
had not been questioned more closely. And 
when I had laid away my fine apparel and 
all was ready for our journey, I took my 
paper to the candle-light that I might de¬ 
cipher it. 

It had been written for my hand and none 
other, and the writer thereof was mine own 
father’s brother. I was indeed of the illus¬ 
trious Desmond house, though of a younger 
branch; and yet in the havoc that had come 
upon it I might well now be all that was 


64 


THE DEAD HAND. 


living of the race. I had, it seemed, my 
father being slain, been hidden with my 
mother in the forest by a faithful clansman, 
who had provided us with what food he 
might; who being out one day snaring 
rabbits in the forest had been caught by a 
partymf the enemy and borne away by them 
strapped to one of their horses. He had 
escaped them by the mercy of God, and re¬ 
turned to the place where he had left us, to 
find his lady dead of starvation and myself 
gone. Doubtless that sweet mother of 
mine had starved through giving all she had 
to her child. The man knew not if I had 
met an enemy and been hacked or speared 
to death, or if the wolves had had me, or 
the fierce eagles that yet infest the forest 
in search of tender prey. He grieved to 
death not knowing. But the friar, Brother 
Ambrose, the last of the White Monks of 
Youghall, and mine uncle, known to men as 


THE DEAD HAND. 


65 


Boderick Fitzmaurice, rested not till he had 
found if I were of this life, and at last dis¬ 
covered me. Having written this history 
for mine eyes, he wrestled with me further 
that I should come out from among the 
enemies of my people. But to what end? I 
asked, having so much worldly wisdom, 
since the Desmond clan was gone down in 
blood, and its inheritance with strangers. 
Indeed, when I had come to the dead man’s 
prayers, I folded up the paper as one that 
will not listen and fears to he persuaded. 
Even then there came from the harbor a 
ringing of bells and the shouts of the sailors 
as they drew up the anchor of the Bon 
Aventure from its bed in the sands. I 
therefore thrust my fine garments into my 
sea-chest and shot the bolt; but mine uncle’s 
message to me I put within my doublet. 
As the ship swung round, and we headed 
her for eastward I tume 1 my thoughts away 


66 


THE DEAD HAND. 


from the quiet sleeper in the church tower, 
and looked rather to my lord’s dark figure 
as he leant over the vessel’s side, gazing not 
the way she was going, but rather to west¬ 
ward. For though he was the enemy of my 
race and my country, yet I loved him with 
such a love that nothing could dissever my 
heart from him. And for his sake I was 
not sorry even that I had not sooner dis¬ 
covered that poor kinsman of mine—the 
very last it well might be—in his hiding- 
place. For no doubt he had come many 
times to the room in which he had first 
found me, but never found me again. And 
now he was dead and past caring any more. 


CHAPTER V. 


OF A STRAIT PLACE AND A QUIET TIME. 

A few days later the Bon Aventure was 
lying in the river Thames, and we had no 
more than cast anchor when my lord put on 
his richest clothes, and bidding me to at¬ 
tend him, went by water to the steps leading 
to the Queen’s palace of Westminster. I 
remember that the way took ns past Trai¬ 
tor’s Cate, the low and threatening portals 
by which prisoners are brought within the 
Tower. As we passed my lord looked at 
me with a sad smile. "I shall go that way 
yet, Wat,” he said. And when I burst into 
a passionate protest, he said to me: “Why, 
Wat, if you could look upon the company 
67 


68 A STRAIT PLAGE AND A QUIET TIME. 


which hath passed by way of that gate, you 
would see it to be of the finest. I shall not 
blush to tread in their footsteps.” But I 
could not believe it, looking upon him in his 
garb of peach-bloom velvet laced with sil¬ 
ver, and the jewels of a king’s ransom; and 
yet alas! he spoke too truly. 

I remember when we were come to those 
stairs of Westminster how the people 
pressed to look upon him, and shouted 
for him, and flung their caps in the air. If 
he was not in favor at the court, certainly 
he lacked not favor outside it. 

Even within the palace the pages and the 
maids of honor peeped at him, and many 
courtiers thronged to welcome him, and the 
scullions and grooms of the chambers looked 
through windows and down staircases to see 
him pass, so that to me it was as though the 
tapestry wavered with whispers and eyes. 
As we waited for an audience we saw many 


A STRAIT PLACE AND A QUIET TIME. 69 


great men pass, but not one fit to stand be¬ 
side my lord. Then came the Queen, a 
shrunk, tall, high-boned woman, in a blaze 
of diamonds, the ruff standing about her 
spare, pale head like a setting sun, so thick 
it was with jewels, and her farthingale 
and petticoat making a prodigious circle 
about her. She had green eyes, and they 
were cold, and coldly she gave her hand to 
my lord to kiss. 

She had called him back because Spain 
threatened; but now he was come she could 
not forget her anger. That was for the old 
affair of Mistress Throckmorton. I heard 
the pages whispering that day that she had 
not forgiven him; and one, a pert, bright 
lad, who won my heart because he was so 
eager to see and hear of the Great Captain, 
told me how my Lord Essex had in likewise 
nearly forfeited the Queen’s favor. For he 
had admired upon the person of the Lady 


70 A STRAIT PLACE AND A QUIET TIME. 


Mary Howard a farthingale of cloth of gold, 
sewn with seed-pearls, the which coming to 
the Queen’s ears she had demanded the gar¬ 
ment for herself, saying that no subject 
should go finer than the Queen’s Majesty. 
But having acquired it she discovered her¬ 
self to be too tall and too broad for it, so 
that it misbecame her mightily. Where¬ 
upon she cast it aside so that none should 
wear it since she could not. 

Of the same palace I grew sick to death. 
How long were we kept waiting about its 
corridors till the Queen’s favor should veer 
towards us again. It suited not with a 
country lad like myself; and as for my lord, 
his face grew lined and he seldom smiled: 
so that often, often, I longed that the old 
gardening days in Youghall were come 
again. Nor had he yet seen his wife and 
son. At last he grew restive, and declared 
that Devonshire air consorted better with 


A STRAIT PLACE AND A QUIET TIME, fl 

his humor than the dank fogs that spread 
at evening about Westminster. But ere he 
could he gone he was committed to the 
Tower on the Queen’s warrant. So, sooner 
than we dreamt were we come to Traitor’s 
Gate. 

I went thither with him, and together we 
passed the low arch. There I was permitted 
to be in attendance on him, and listened 
often to his cries and groans, for he could 
not endure the imprisonment while there 
were so many glorious things in the world 
to be done. Sometimes he would solace 
himself with philosophy and poetry. But 
at times his fury would break forth so that 
the governor of the Tower feared for him 
lest he should go mad. He well described 
his own sufferings. 

“ I am become like a fish cast on dry 
land,” he wrote, “ gasping for breath, with 
lame legs and lamer lungs.” 


72 A STRAIT PLACE AND A QUIET TIME. 

Indeed there were times when it seemed 
as if he would die from being so imprisoned 
and confined. Trust in the Queen’s pity he 
had not. 

“ There is no chance for me now, Wat,” 
he said once, “ unless it be that one of my 
captains should bring home a treasure-ship 
to pour into her lap, which might buy my 
freedom if she conceived that by that means 
I might find her more. For she loves gold 
as other women love love, wherefore is her 
face become yellower than a guinea.” 

It was for some such saying, doubtless, 
the Queen had had him cast in the Tower. 
He was not one to learn guile; and, like his 
rival, Essex, he was over-hrave in speech as 
in other things. 

However, that happened that one of his 
captains did bring home a treasure-ship. He 
had been in the Tower two months, and had 
worn the stone floors with his pacing of 


A STRAIT PLAGE AND A QUIET TIME . 7$ 

them, more restless than the lion. The 
folk came to stare at him in the courtyard 
without. Then word came to us that his 
ships were in from the Azores and had 
brought with them the Spanish plate-ship, 
the Madre di Dios, which they had captured 
from the Dons. Half a million, a million, 
there was no end to the guineas she was 
worth. She was lined with glowing, woven 
carpets, sarcenet quilts, and lengths of white 
silks and Cyprus. She carried, in chests of 
sandalwood and ebony, such stores of rubies 
and pearls, such porcelain and ivory and 
crystal, such planks of cinnamon, and such 
marvellous treasures as had never before 
been seen. Her hold seemed like a garden 
of spices, so laden was it with cloves, cin¬ 
namon, ambergris, and frankincense. 

But even then the Queen was not minded 
to deliver him. His chief captain came 
from the mouth of the Dart, where the ship 


74 A STRAIT PLAGE AND A QUIET TIME. 

lay, to bring him his reports; hut no mes¬ 
sage came from the Queen. However, his 
freeing was taken out of her hands and 
came not a whit too soon, for he had aged 
ten years in those two months. It seemed 
that the usurers and dealers in precious 
metals in London had flocked to the Dart 
upon the news of the treasure. And va¬ 
grants from all the winds flocked thither. 
And between those vultures- and my lord’s 
own seamen and men of Devon there was 
soon riot and bloodshed. Then, since all 
means of restoring the peace seemed to 
have failed, at last they took my lord from 
the Tower that he might make peace. 

It seemed that half the world was about 
the treasure-ship, and my lord’s ships. 
There came to greet us at our journey’s 
end that Lord Cecil of whom I had heard 
so much. I trusted him not, and I was re¬ 
joiced that he should see the passion of wel- 


A STRAIT PLACE AND A QUIET TIME. 75 


come which awaited my lord from his men 
of Devon. It was well that it was so, for 
my Lord Cecil reported upon it to the 
Queen. 

“ I assure you,” he wrote, “ all his ser¬ 
vants and his mariners came to him with 
such shouts of joy as I never saw a man 
more troubled to quiet them in all my life. 
But his heart is broken, and whenever he is 
saluted with congratulation for liberty he 
doth answer, ‘ No, I am still the Queen of 
England’s poor captive/ But I vow to you 
his credit among the mariners is greater 
than I could have thought it.” 

My Lord Cecil was well disposed to my 
lord, albeit his cunning eyes and old, wise 
face made my youth feel of a sudden cold. 
The Queen harkened to him, and we were 
returned no more to the Tower; yet those 
two months of impatient fretting had set 
their mark upon my lord. 


76 A STRAIT PLAGE AND A QUIET TIME . 

After this we sailed up the Dart to that 
Manor-house where the Lady Raleigh dwelt 
with her son. And again there was a ^ery 
sweet interval of peace. I have now but to 
close my eyes and see again the red-brick 
ivied house, with its chimney-stack dark 
against the sky. The swallows are wheel¬ 
ing overhead, shouting and playing with one 
another. The rooks are coming homeward 
across the evening sky. On the green and 
velvety howling green young Walter and I 
are playing at howls. There are roses on 
the terrace and a peacock spreading his tail. 
Below these is the garden with its box bor¬ 
ders, its roses and pinks and pansies; its 
fountain where the goldfish swim round and 
round, and its mossy dial. Further yet is 
the orchard, and beyond it the deer feeding 
amid the trees, and further still the river, 
and apple-orchards, with maids and men 
a-gathering apples for the cider brew. But 


A STRAIT PLACE AND A QUIET TIME. 77 

I look not so far. My eye rests with my 
heart upon my lord, when he goeth between 
the box-borders in sweet converse with his 
lady-wife; and I watch him till young Wal¬ 
ter rallies me as a poor comrade and player 
at the game. 

Often my lady would take me apart, and 
bid me tell her of my lord when he was in 
Ireland. Of those years she was never tired 
of hearing; and when my tongue or my 
thoughts would grow slack she would grow 
impatient with me. Yet I think my love 
for her lord pleased her. She was a little 
lady, and the brightest ever I saw, with 
cream-pale cheeks and the liveliest of 
black eyes. I could not winder that 
for a time she lulled to sleep my lord’s 
desires for America. Very pitiful she 
was towards the havoc their long parting 
and the trouble and the imprisonment had 
wrought in him, and would stand a-tiptoes 


78 A STRAIT PLACE AND A QUIET TIME. 

to smooth the wrinkles out with her dainty 
finger. 

The Lord Cecil was now my lord’s friend 
at court, and to him she writ beseeching 
that there might be no more voyages, at 
least for the time. 

“ I hope for my sake,” she writ, “ that you 
wilt rather draw Walter toward the East 
than help him forward toward the sunset, 
if any respect to me or love to him be not 
forgotten.” 

So we remained in peace, and young Wal¬ 
ter and I flew our hawks and played at the 
ball, and fished and swam to our hearts’ 
content. And dearly as I loved my lord, I 
came to love his son hardly less. He was a 
brave lad of Devon, this Walter Kaleigh, tall 
as his father, and nigh as comely, yet inno¬ 
cent and quiet, with the country innocence 
and quietude, because by reason of the 
Queen’s displeasure he had abode all his 


A STRAIT PLAGE AND A QUIET TIME. 79 

years in those sequestered ways; yet skilled 
in all such manly and courtly arts as be¬ 
came the son of his father; so that he 
was as good with a sonnet as at sword-play, 
and could dance the pavane as prettily as he 
could loose his goshawk. And for all his 
innocence was not unfit to face a rough 
world; and for all his quiet kindliness was 
as brave and as quick to fight as any gallant 
ever I saw. 

My lord looked on at our comradeship 
well pleased. I heard him ask my Lady 
Raleigh one day if we did not make a gal¬ 
lant couple, at which my lady pouted, and 
said he was loving me in Ireland when she 
and her Wat were forgotten. “ Nay,” said 
he, “ that never was, Sweetlips; but he com¬ 
forted me something in my loneliness with¬ 
out wife and son.” Then my lady called me 
to her, and kissed me like a mother, and 
vowed that she loved me for what I had 


80 A STRAIT PLACE AND A QUIET TIME. 


been to her lord in those Irish years. She 
changed quickly in her pretty humors; but 
there was no change in her constancy and 
kindness towards me any more than in her 
lord’s love. 

After that we went eastward for a season 
to the village of Bath, to drink at its 
springs, which had been discovered to be 
sovereign remedy for many ills. It was my 
Lady Raleigh’s will to make her lord well 
again. “As though, Bess,” he said, “you 
could turn backward the years we have been 
parted.” 

And I left the Manor-house with grief 
and pain, for never again, I feared, should 
we have a season of such peace. My lord 
was not one to abide long in peace; and cer¬ 
tainly the Bath waters as they restored his 
strength restored also his passion for ad¬ 
venture and turmoil, so that my Lady 
Raleigh in healing him but defeated her 


A STRAIT PLACE AND A QUIET TIME. 81 

desire of keeping him with her. For after 
a time he seemed no longer quiet and well- 
content. And he had yet not only his share 
of the treasure-ship, though I doubt not the 
greater part was poured in the Queen’s lap, 
but he had also my Lord Boyle’s purse to 
draw upon. 

Then as he was becoming restive, yea, 
straining as a hound strains at the leash, 
and declaring that he would sail before the 
mast if he might none other way, one of his 
captains, Popham by name, and a stout old 
sea-dog from the harbor town of Plymouth, 
brought him letters writ by a Spanish cap¬ 
tain to the King of Spain, and captured by 
the English ship. Reading them my lord 
seemed as he would choke with fury. I 
knew how my lord’s heart turned to Guiana, 
the golden country. And these letters re¬ 
ported that the Governor of Trinidad had 
annexed this same wondrous land in the 


82 A STRAIT PLAGE AND A QUIET TIME. 


name of King Philip. Then, even my Lady 
Raleigh saw that it was no use seeking to 
hold her lord any longer; and she bade him 
go, with so sweet a grace and so high a spirit 
that she proved herself even a worthy mate 
for the Great Captain. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 

We left my Lady Raleigh alone in the 
spring of the year. It was February the 
sixth, and the snowdrop and crocus were up 
in the garden-beds of the Manor-house, and 
the blackbirds and thrushes singing nigh as 
sweet as they sing in Ireland, when we put 
out from Plymouth with five ships and a 
motley company. It was a stolen expedi¬ 
tion in a manner of speaking; for we hoisted 
our flag for Virginia, yet I think the mean¬ 
est scullion aboard knew that Guiana was 
our port. For it was not politic to flout too 
openly Philip of Spain; though we might fly 
the Jolly Roger and overhaul his treasure- 
83 


84 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


ships on the high seas. For the Queen of 
England, as she grew older grew craftier; 
and would have any cat’s-paw to draw her 
chestnuts out of the fire, and bear the brunt 
of it as well, while she went free. 

We two Wats sailed with Sir Walter. 
’Twas time, he said, his son should see the 
world; and indeed it would have gone hard 
with us to be left behind. 

It is wonderful to me now to recall how I 
had learnt—yea, as though I had been Eng¬ 
lish-born—to hate the Spaniard, as though 
he had been a rat or some such thing, and 
no evil but merit in the slaying and despoil¬ 
ing of him. And therein was shown the 
folly and vanity of my youth; for not only 
was the Spaniard a grave and majestic foe, 
but he was of the faith my fathers had died 
to defend. Yet of this I thought not at all 
at the time, being indeed little better than 
a heathen; for my lord, albeit he was reb’~ 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


85 


gious at heart, yet showed little of it in his 
life, and troubled not at all about it in 
others. Indeed, it is a strange thing to me 
now to reflect that all who led that wild life 
had yet some measure of religion; for then 
the days of the cold-heart and the mocker 
had not yet begun. 

I remember as we made the voyage how 
Wat and I used to gather at night about the 
mast to hear the sailors tell stories and sing 
songs. There was one, Jonas Tittlebat, of 
Devizes, who was our favorite story-teller of 
them all, and I doubt not our favorite sto¬ 
ries were of the slaying of Spaniards and 
sacking of their ships. It was as though 
one should inure a tender child to the 
shambles. For we grew to love the talk of 
blood, and to desire to see and smell and 
taste it; and I remember ? ow at the end of 
the recitals Wat and I used to sit and pant, 
facing each other like a pair of tiger-cats, 


86 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


with the lust of blood in our hearts. For 
though we had been brought up simply and 
innocently the evil was there, only awaiting 
the breath that should fan it to a flame, and 
the fostering hands that would not let it 
go out. 

Many weeks, even months, were we sailing 
till we came in sight of land, and for some 
days before this the southwesterly wind 
had brought us many an earnest of the 
beautiful country, brilliant and strange 
leaves, and plumes, and shells, and flow¬ 
ers, drifting to us over the phosphorescent 
water which at night made the sea a dance 
of silver. 

Of my lord we saw little during the voy¬ 
age. He was ever busy with his maps and 
charts in the cabin, observing the motion 
of his compasses, and studying the stars by 
night. Or else he was writing; and often 
it made me wonder to see how he, so greatly 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


87 


in love with action and energy, could 
yet content himself so many hours with 
the pen. 

As we sailed up the river the beauty of it 
struck us dumb. I saw my lord stand in 
the bows of the vessel and drink in hungrily 
the beauty of that land. Exceedingly fer¬ 
tile it seemed, nor can I describe it better 
than in his own words. 

“ I never imagined a more beautiful coun¬ 
try nor more lively prospects/’ he wrote; 
“ hills so raised here and there over the val¬ 
leys; the river winding into divers branches; 
the plains adjoining without bush or stub¬ 
ble, but all fair, green grass; the deer cross¬ 
ing in every path; the birds towards the 
evening singing on every tree with a thou¬ 
sand several tunes, cranes and herons of 
white, crimson, and carnation, perching on 
the river’s side; the air fresh with a gentle 
easterly wind, and every stone that we 


88 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


stooped to take up promised either gold or 
silver by his complexion.” 

We sailed even into the golden city of 
Manoa, and there saw the houses with their 
strange carvings, and their cups and drink¬ 
ing-vessels of precious metal; and the mar¬ 
vellous temple with its hundred images 
of beaten gold, the eyes of diamonds, and 
with necklets of rubies large as pigeon’s 
eggs, and garments sewn with pearls and 
emeralds. 

The poor Indians who possessed these 
treasures were a mild and gentle race, igno¬ 
rant of how greatly men’s passions were in¬ 
flamed by gold and gems, which to them 
were common matters. They were no sav¬ 
ages, but a nation with a certain knowledge 
of the arts and a civilization after their own 
manner; and it was touching to see how 
kindly and sweetly they welcomed the white 
man among them, although indeed in the 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


89 


ships were to be found some of the worst 
rascals that ever sailed out of Plymouth. 
However, fear of my lord kept this rascal¬ 
dom in check; for he loved the Indians, and 
made it a matter with the Queen that in 
any expedition to the Guianas there should 
he no ill-treatment of the gentle race. In¬ 
deed he believed honestly that he were bet¬ 
ter their master than Spain, and so had less 
compunction in seeking their treasures. 

But now a larger expedition was needed, 
and one that would have the Queen’s sanc¬ 
tion; and so having feasted our eyes on the 
delights of this enchanting country we 
turned our ships for home, hearing with us 
gifts of gems and gold with which the In¬ 
dians had loaded us, and also great stores of 
roots and plants and many strange matters. 

We were not bent on any adventure, for 
my lord thought only of gaining the Queen’s 
ear, displaying to her the earnest he brought 


90 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


of the treasures of Guiana, and returning 
thither as fast as might he after fitting out 
a large fleet of ships; and then of taking 
possession in the Queen’s name. For 
greater even than his passion for adven¬ 
ture were his love of England and hatred 
of Spain; and the new policy of pleasing 
King Philip he loathed with all his heart. 

The homeward voyage therefore he spent 
in writing for the Queen’s eye an account of 
Guiana, which afterwards he magnified into 
his hook “ On the Discovery of the large , 
rich, and beautiful Empire of Guiana, with 
a relation of the great and Golden City of 
Manoa, which the Spaniards call El Dorado, 
and the Provinces of Emeria, Arromaia, 
Amapaia, and other Countries, with their 
Rivers adjoining.” 

So we were left again to the story-telling 
about the mast; and this grew more violent 
and rank with blood, as though the sight of 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


91 


so much treasure as we had left behind us 
had inflamed the minds of the tellers. Yea, 
we ate and drank blood, it seems to me, 
now looking hack on those recitals; and were 
thus prepared for what followed. 

For lo, one evening we saw far off upon 
the waters the shape of a great ship. Her 
poop was high out of the water, and apart 
from her size she was easy to be seen, for 
as the night gathered she blazed with can¬ 
dles so that she was like a fiery thing upon 
the waters. 

Then there was such a confusion and ex¬ 
citement on the ships as never have I seen 
surpassed. My lord had left his hooks, and 
standing by the prow of the Bon Aventure 
gazed through his telescope upon that far^ 
away vision that hung like a great golden 
bird against the purple of the after-sunset. 
There was no doubt in any mind that she 
was a Spanish galleon by her high poop and 


92 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


her great decks above the water. She was 
indeed none other than the famous treasure- 
ship, Nuestra Sehora del Pilar, and she was 
riding without any escort. 

We extinguished every light we had 
aboard the ships, and in cover of the dark¬ 
ness we crept upon her. She was big as a 
little town, it seemed to me; and for all she 
was so gayly lit she slept well, for we crept 
up under her stern, and there was no cry 
from her lookout. At last we were so near 
that I could see the image of the Holy Vir¬ 
gin at her masthead, and the lamp burning 
before it. But the image said nothing to 
me then. 

The great ship was almost motionless on 
the dark water. Indeed I wondered if she 
had cast anchor, so still she was; yet how 
cast anchor in so many fathoms of water? 

With much care and muffling of our oars 
we now took to the boats, and as fast as the 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


93 


boats filled they rowed towards the ship. 
The boat in which I was came up by the 
poop. I looked above me in wonder at all 
the rows of carven saints and angels, as it 
were the hierarchy of heaven. Over the 
side a rope swung noiselessly, as though it 
had been left there for our purpose. We 
clambered up it one after another and stood 
on deck, where was not a living soul, and 
this puzzled us not a little. But the bul¬ 
warks were set round with carven images in 
little niches, and each had its lamp, and the 
like on every deck; and that was how the 
illumination had come. 

I looked round on the shipmen in the 
light of the many shrines. Some had the 
brown and wholesome faces of seamen, 
and though they looked fierce and blood¬ 
thirsty enough, were yet no worse than 
any fighting man. But others were no bet¬ 
ter than Algerine pirates, and carried a 


94 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


knife in their teeth and their pistols at full 
cock, and were as ready to slay and murder 
as any evil beast. For my lord had sailed 
with hut a handful of his own men amid the 
scum of Plymouth rascaldom. 

Yet even these did the silence of the 
great ship somewhat appal. And for my¬ 
self, though I was as ready for murder and 
rapine as any, yet was I given pause; and 
hearing my lord’s whisper at my elbow, I 
turned and looked at him. “ What do you 
make of it, Wat?” he asked. “Do you 
think it is a trap ? ” 

But ere I could answer him a figure came 
up the stairway from the cabin. It was an 
old man, very tall, and in the garb of a 
white friar, just such another as I had left 
sleeping in St. Mary’s Tower. The likeness 
sent a thrill of terror through me. The old 
man saw us not. He carried a taper in his 
hand; he was going round doubtless to re- 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


95 


plenish the lamps if they had gone out. The 
light from the taper showed a face of much 
benignancy—an old, kind face. The cowl 
had fallen hack, and the silver tonsure 
gleamed in the light. 

Suddenly some one stirred in our midst, 
and all at once he knew that we were there. 
He opened his lips as though to speak. 
Then some of those pirates were upon him. 
I saw him lift the great crucifix that hung 
by his side between them and him. Then 
he was down, and the knives were hewing 
him. I thought no more on it, though it 
turned me sick an instant. 

The ship now swarmed with our men 
rushing hither and thither in search of 
treasure. Some were seizing the silver 
lamps before the shrines, others were tear¬ 
ing down the images. A rush of men swept 
me from my feet and down the cabin stairs, 
and I grasped my sword tighter. But here 


96 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


was no enemy. Only rich garments flung 
hither and thither in the silk-hung rooms, 
and many signs of the ship having been de¬ 
serted in haste. 

I would have gone further, leaving the 
place to those who were tearing it to pieces, 
dragging down the hangings, kicking open 
the cedar-wood lockers, and pouring the 
precious wine they found there down their 
throats; I would have gone further had not 
my lord prevented me. 

“ Come up on deck, Wat,” he said; “ there 
is a scent of death here that sickens me. I 
am glad I left my boy on the Bon Aven- 
ture.” 

He dragged me with him. We were 
hardly up in the pure air before there was 
a scream from the mad herd below that 
turned one cold to hear; and as though the 
devil pursued them they came clambering 
up the hatches and staircases white as 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


97 


death, and sobered, and began flinging 
themselves off the sides of the vessel into 
their boats. 

“ They would leave us here, Wat* to the 
terror, whatever it may be,” said my lord, 
“ if I had not had with me by good fortune 
a handful of mine own shipmates. Ah, 
Gregory Dabchick ”—seizing one —“ what 
white devil hast thou seen below-stairs? ” 

“ If you please, none, Captain,” cried 
Dabchick, his breath sobbing; “ but a worse 
thing. There are half a dozen corpses be¬ 
low there, dead of the smallpox. J Tis a 
floating pest-house, my lord, and the place 
reeks with death.” 

“Ah,” said Sir Walter, as we stood wait¬ 
ing for the mob to get off the ship, “ the 
monk would have told us so if those dogs 
had not murdered him. Doubtless he re¬ 
mained behind when the others fled away, 
to nurse the living and bury the dead, and 


98 


THE TREASURE-SHIP. 


solaced himself, poor soul, by setting can¬ 
dles to his saints” 

Ere we were put into Plymouth town 
again there were eighty of our hundred dead 
of the smallpox; and I was carried ashore 
more dead than alive, to he nursed back to 
health by the Lady Raleigh’s ministering 
hands. 


CHAPTER VII. 

OUR LAST YEARS TOGETHER. 

I came out of that illness no longer the 
youth I had been; for God used the things 
that had happened me to make a change 
in my heart. I went very near to death, 
and I came back to life very grievously dis¬ 
figured, yea, as though I had been slashed 
criss-cross with swords, and the sight of one 
of mine eyes gone. Nevermore should I 
ruffle it with gallants; and indeed it seemed 
a bitter and cruel thing to the boy, this ruin 
of comeliness, so that for long the bitter¬ 
ness was greater than death, yet since then 
the man has learned to thank the Hand that 

wielded that most merciful rod, 

99 


L. of C, 


100 OUR LAST YEARS TOGETHER. 

I was yet but a moping thing, creeping up 
heavily from death to life, when my lord 
sailed on that expedition to Cadiz with the 
Lord Admiral Thomas Howard and his old- 
time enemy the Lord Essex, which brought 
such glory to the English name. I think 
there was but one part of my old self re¬ 
mained alive in me, and that was my love 
for Sir Walter, which is wrought so inex¬ 
tricably within the chords of my being that 
nothing shall disentagle it. 

I had been sick to death during that time 
when Sir Walter had wrestled vainly with 
the Queen for an expedition to Guiana, and 
been discomfited. For truly her will was 
brass and iron; nothing for man, however 
great, to prevail against, and for long her 
face had been turned away from him, and 
seemed like to remain so. 

I was getting well, with no heart to 
recover, when the reports came of the 


OUR LAST YEARS TOGETHER. 101 

Cadiz expedition. It was glorious summer 
weather, and my Lady Raleigh, whose pa¬ 
tience was more than human with me, would 
have me carried to the lawn under shade of 
trees; and there laid on my pillows I would 
listen to her proud recitals of her lord’s 
heroic deeds. 

It was on the 21st of June that the fleet 
entered Cadiz Harbor. My lord was on 
board the Water Sprite; and he had no 
sooner entered than he received the fire of 
seventeen great galleons. But as though 
she had been indeed spirit and not body, the 
Sprite went unharmed. Raleigh blew his 
trumpets upon them in a great blare of de¬ 
fiance. Near at hand lay the St. Philip and 
the St. Andrew, the two ships foremost in 
that attack on the Revenge in which the 
brave Sir Richard Greville had fallen. 
“ These,” wrote he, “ were the marks I shot 
at, being resolved to be revenged for the 


102 OUR LAST TEARS TOGETHER. 

Revenge, or to second her with my own 
life. . . . Having no hope of my fly-boats 
to hoard, and the Earl and my Lord Thomas 
having both promised to second me, I laid 
out a way by the side of the Philip to 
shake hands with her, for with the wind we 
could not get aboard; which when she and 
the rest perceived they all let slip and ran 
aground, tumbling into the sea heaps of sol¬ 
diers as thick as if coals had been poured 
out of a sack in many parts at once, some 
drowned and some sticking in the mud. The 
Philip burned itself, the St. Andrew and the 
St. Matthew were recovered by our boats ere 
they could get out to fire them. The 
spectacle was very lamentable, for many 
drowned themselves; many, half-burned, 
leaped into the water; very many hanging 
by the rope’s end by the ship’s side, under 
the water even to the lips; many swimming 
with grievous wounds, and withal so huge a 


OUR LAST TEARS TOGETHER. 103 

fire and so great a tearing of ordnance in 
the great Philip and the rest, when the fire 
came to them, as if a man had a desire to 
see Hell itself it was there most lively fig¬ 
ured. Ourselves spared the lives of all after 
the victory, but the Flemings, who did little 
or nothing in the fight, used merciless 
slaughter, till they were by myself, and 
afterwards by the Lord Admiral, beaten 
off” 

“ The poor Spaniards! ” cried my Lady 
Raleigh with tears, even while she was 
proudest; but as for me, I had no heart to 
rejoice or to be sorry, being so marred my¬ 
self, and scarce anything alive in me except 
my love for her lord, and even that pulsed 
faintly. 

He came home to be hailed with such 
cheers and shouts by the common people as 
pleased the Queen but little, for she liked 
not to be eclipsed by a subject. Besides, the 


104 OUR LAST YEARS TOGETHER. 

victory gave her little treasure; and she 
grew more and more miserly. Though my 
lord was glorious with wounds, she even re¬ 
fused to look upon him, which led me to 
say, as I have said often since, that the 
greatness of those Tudors lay chiefly in 
their hard usage of those who made them 
great. However, there was to gauge a 
deeper depth when the Stuart came to Eng¬ 
land’s throne. 

I had feared my lord’s face when he came 
to look on me in my disfigurement, for he 
loved beauty, so that I scarcely dared to lift 
my one sound eye to his. Yet when I had 
found courage to do so I found nothing but 
love in his regard, and he embraced me as a 
father might, kissing my seamed cheek and 
calling me his dear lad. And young Walter 
likewise; for in the years that followed, dur¬ 
ing which we continued the tender friend¬ 
ship that had sprung up between us at the 


OUR LAST YEARS TOGETHER. 105 


first, I have never once seen in his manner 
that pity which I could not have borne. 

But the end of our misfortunes was not 
yet. Elizabeth died, and the son of Mary 
of Scotland succeeded; and now my lord an¬ 
ticipated no more ill than came, for the 
Stuart truckled to King Philip as never a 
Tudor had done, and ’twas like the Span¬ 
iard’s first demand would be that the most 
glorious of his enemies should be laid away 
beyond power of annoying him more. So it 
was that presently my lord was accused of 
being joined with the Lord Cobham in a 
plot to bring the Lady Arabella Stuart to 
the throne, and was cast into the Tower. 

Then began that long martyrdom which 
is the everlasting disgrace of the meanest of 
Kings. He had made friends with his 
mother’s slayer. What was to be looked for 
from him? But to shut an eagle in a cage, 
to clip a sea-bird’s wings, to confine in a lit- 


106 OUR LAST YEARS TOGETHER. 

tie space the noblest, freest spirit that lived, 
and the loyalist to England! This remained 
for Mary Stuart’s son to do. 

There was no end to that imprisonment. 
Again I went with him to the Tower; while 
my lady had a lodging without the walls. 
Young Walter still fought, as his father had 
before him, the battles of England by land 
and sea. And I was my lord’s squire in the 
Tower, and had as much glory and love in 
it as though ’twere the Field of Cloth of 
Gold. 

For now I was to witness the greatness of 
his spirit. When it had been borne in upon 
him that this imprisonment was like to have 
no end, he fretted not as he did in those two 
months long ago, hut solaced his heart by 
the writing of that great History of the 
World which remains his monument. Also 
religion came sweetly to his aid, for that 
which had been out of sight in his wild, 


OUR LAST TEARS TOGETHER. 107 

seafaring days now leaped np like a flame. 
Indeed never have I seen a greater tranquil¬ 
lity. He also occupied himself with the dis¬ 
tilling of sweet waters and medicinal herbs; 
and the Governor of the Tower, who loved 
him, permitted that his still should he set 
up in the Governor’s garden, where also he 
took up again his old gardening ways. In¬ 
deed he kept his pain as being a captive out 
of sight after the first, and contented him¬ 
self heroically; although his lady, poor soul, 
deafened the court with her prayers for her 
brave Wat, as though it were not the Span¬ 
iard who had turned the key upon him. 

Nor yet was he forgotten by his old lov¬ 
ers, the common people. They waited in 
crowds to see him walk upon the terrace. 
The sailors shouted for him as the ships 
came up the river. As the years passed, and 
his feats became a legend, ladies and cava¬ 
liers came praying from the lieutenant of 


108 OUR LAST TEARS TOGETHER. 

the Tower a word with the lion-heart. Still 
he wore his velvets and silks and damasks; 
still he blazed with jewels: no dusty pris¬ 
oner, hut a splendid knight, pacing the ter¬ 
race while summers and winters went. 

Even the Queen came thither with her 
young son begging his “ strawberry water ” 
to cure her of an ailment; and if the mother 
returned not it was not so with the son. 
The young Prince Henry came again and 
again, and being a youth of high and gen¬ 
erous spirit, loved my lord in time near as 
well as we did, who had seen his glories. 
“None save my father,” he quoth bitterly, 
“ would have kept such a bird in a cage.” 

His relation with my lord came in time to 
be as that of master and pupil, for he would 
pace with him for hours while my lord dis¬ 
coursed on the arts of peace and war and 
the duties of a prince to his subjects. So 
great grew the tenderness between them 


OUR LAST YEARS TOGETHER . 109 

that I doubt not if the young Prince had 
lived my lord would have stood at his right 
hand. But that was not to he: he died un¬ 
timely, and the last prayer on his lips was 
for the freeing of his friend. 

The dead Prince’s prayer was forgotten; 
hut presently when the King wanted money 
he remembered the treasures of Guiana and 
those gifts my lord had brought to Queen 
Elizabeth. ’Twas as mean a bargain as ever 
was made. My lord was to have his liberty. 
He was to find the money for the ships and 
the men; but whatever treasure the gold 
mines in the Orinoco yielded was to fall to 
the King. On these conditions, and that 
he was not to meddle with the Spaniards, 
my lord set out. I went with him; and 
young Walter also sailed. He who had 
been a noble and gallant youth was now 
become a noble and gallant man, and my 
lord had great hopes of him; but, alas, 


110 OUR LAST TEARS TOGETHER. 

Death mows down the fairest and the most 
promising. 

From the first the thing was ill-fated. 
We were not so far sailed when fever broke 
out and ravaged the ships. Now there is 
nothing like a pestilence for breaking the 
heart and reducing the spirit in men; and 
ere ever we reached Guiana shores there 
was grumbling a-shipboard and mutiny in 
the air. And when we were come there it 
was to find the Spaniards, with forces of 
ships and men guarding the mouth of the 
river; for all our secrets had been betrayed 
to them. 

Nor would it matter what force the Span¬ 
iards had, nor would any murmur have 
arisen if but the Captain had been at our 
head. But he, alas, was laid low by the 
sickness; and his men without him as a 
shepherdless flock that is driven hither and 
thither and blown upon by winds of con- 


OUR LAST YEARS TOGETHER. HI 

fusion. For when they found the Spanish 
defences they cried out that they had been 
betrayed, and would go no further. 

Then young Walter, that inheritor of all 
braveries, leaped to the front and offered 
to creep ashore, past the line of the Span¬ 
iards, and reach the mines if so he might, 
and return with reports upon them. Also 
Captain Keymis, one of the bravest of 
Raleigh’s seamen, would go with him. With 
tender embracings and partings did father 
and son say farewell, that never were to 
look on each other in this life again. For 
a party of Spaniards did set upon our dear 
Wat and his brave companion, together with 
the little force that went with them; and 
shouting to his men to come on, Wat fell, 
hacked to pieces by Spanish swords. 

Captain Keymis escaped to bring back 
the tale of disaster and a report that there 
was no gold to be had at the mines now. 


112 OUR LAST YEARS TOGETHER. 

whatever had been. So the men murmured 
more; though my lord, sick as he was, would 
himself go in search of the mines and in 
pursuit of the Spaniards that had slain his 
son. But none would follow him. 

Then, broken-hearted, the lion of Eng¬ 
land at last turned his back on his promised 
land and set sail for England to meet his 
death at last. He had better have died 
fighting the Spaniards, yet that his men 
would not permit; and I think none of them 
guessed that they brought him home to his 
death. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


AN UNRAVELLED THREAD. 

Once again we were in the dolorous 
Tower, and this time there was no return¬ 
ing. They arrested him at Plymouth on 
the moment of his landing. As though they 
could never slay him fast enough, he was 
put on his trial and found guilty of abusing 
the King’s confidence and injuring the sub¬ 
jects of Spain, and condemned to death on 
the old sentence. 

Perhaps they thought if they were not 
speedy that the people would not suffer it. 
To kill a Raleigh was better sport than 
witch-burning, yet they hardly paused from 
their torture of innocent crones and helpless 
113 


114 AN UNRAVELLED THREAD. 

girls to see the lion die. One grace they 
gave him—that his body was to be spared 
the last indignities and to be handed over 
to his wife for burial where she would. “ It 
is well, Bess,” he said to her, rallying her, 
“thou mayst dispose of that dead which 
thou hadst not always the disposal of when 
living.” 

The last night he lived he spoke with me 
of my birth. I then told him that I had 
held the secret all those years. “Yet you 
stayed, Wat,” he said gently, “ though I 
was the enemy of your people.” 

“But ever my most dear and admired 
lord,” I made answer. 

Then he told me how he had always in¬ 
tended that I should have his portion of the 
Desmond inheritance, together with certain 
jewels and plate which he had hidden in a 
secret place in the garden at Youghall; but 
he had been obliged by sore necessity to 


AN UNRAVELLED THREAD. 115 


give six thousand acres to the Lord Boyle, 
who was now Earl of Cork. Another six 
thousand the Lord Boyle was to hold in 
trust for me. “ The deeds are safe/’ he 
said, “ and he is hound fast. If he will not 
disgorge, you must even make him.” 

“Alas, to what end?” I asked, “seeing 
that by my name I am an outlawed man.” 

“ You might he the King’s Fitzmaurice,” 
he said, hesitatingly. 

“My dear lord,” I made answer, “to¬ 
morrow morn I am done with earthly hopes. 
Am I one to go to court, or to present my¬ 
self to my people, if people I yet possess? ” 

“Why, Wat,” he said gently, “I think 
others might love that seamed face of yours 
since I do so greatly. What will you do? 
Will you comfort my lady?” 

“ If she needs me,” I made answer. 

“I think she will go to her own folk,” 
he said. 


116 an unravelled thread. 


“ Then I shall be free to do what I will.” 

“And that, Wat? ” 

“ Seek out a hermitage far from the 
world.” 

“ It is truest wisdom,” he said. “ I was 
not horn to be quiet or else I might wish 
that I had found wisdom in my time.” 

But he asked me nothing more of what I 
meant to do, although he placed the deeds 
in my hands to carry to the Lord Boyle. I 
think he had so done with this world that 
hut for his lady’s sake he had been glad his 
doom was at hand. Think on it! He had 
been twelve years in that Tower, who could 
never abide the least shackle, however 
gentle. 

While yet I was with him he writ this 
verse and gave it me with a smile: 

Even such is He that, takes in trust 
Our youth, our joys, our all we have 
And pays us but with earth and dust; 

Who in the dark and silent grave, 


AN UNRAVELLED THREAD. 117 


When we have wandered all our ways 
Shuts up the story of our days; 

But from this earth, this grave, this dust, 
My God shall raise me up, I trust. 


The next morning I helped to caparison 
him as for his wedding. Such gay trappings 
for death were never seen, such rose-pink 
silk, hediamonded, such white velvet, such 
white leathern shoes with rosettes of rubies. 
Then once again I saw my lord young and 
glad, and so full of jests that it grieved the 
good Dean of Westminster to hear him, for 
he thought it a light spirit in which to 
meet death. 

Throngs of people crowded the palace- 
yard of Westminster to see him for the last 
time. He smiled upon them happily while 
he spoke his farewells to them. 

“ I thank God/’ he said, “ that He hath 
brought me into the light to die, and hath 
not suffered me to die in the dark prison of 
the Tower, where I have known a great deal 


118 an unravelled thread. 

of misery and sickness. And I thank God 
that my fever hath not taken me at this 
time, as I prayed Him it might not, that I 
might clear myself of some accusations laid 
to my charge unjustly, and leave behind me 
the testimony of a true heart both to my 
King and country.” Then he held the 
crowd spellbound while he spoke in his de¬ 
fence, and when he had finished, none 
moved, hut they all pressed closer to him as 
though they could not hear to leave him. 

At last he sent them away himself. “ I 
have a long journey to go,” he said, “ there¬ 
fore must I take my leave of you.” 

Afterwards he tried the temper of the 
axe, passing his finger along the edge. 
“ ’Tis a sharp medicine,” he said; “ hut one 
that will cure me of all my diseases.” 

The sheriff asked him which way he 
would lay himself upon the block. “ So as 
the heart be right,” he said, “it matters 


AN UNRAVELLED THREAD. H9 

not which way the head lies.” Then he laid 
himself down; and since the headsman 
feared to strike, and well he might fear, my 
lord himself hurried him. “ Strike, man, 
strike!” he cried; and in an instant the 
noblest head in England rolled upon the 
ground. 

So ended the glorious Sir Walter Raleigh; 
and musing on that end and on the wrongs 
he suffered at the hands of Queen Elizabeth, 
I am often led to wonder that men should 
raise kings and queens over them to work 
such ill. For it seems to me that the great 
days of England were not made by Eliza¬ 
beth Tudor or Harry, her sire, but by the 
great men who stood around them, and 
whom so often they sent to their death. 
Raleigh followed Essex by a space of less 
than a score years, both suffering execution; 
and I pray that in another world these two 
are friends who jostled each other in this, 


120 AN unravelled thread. 

but came alike to the headsman’s block. 
The Tudors were too fond of beheading; but 
they, at least, sent their friends to the block 
and took the shame. I notice in these 
Stuarts something more treacherous—that 
they permit the slaying, and then will rend 
their garments. 

However, what have I to do with bitter¬ 
ness? Ho sooner was my lord laid in the 
grave than I set out to visit my Lord Boyle; 
and being a great man now, his name carried 
me safely where I had not gone without. He 
received me with great honor as a friend 
of Sir Walter Baleigh, and entertained me 
well; but never a word he spoke concerning 
that trust. However, I will not wrong him, 
for I left him after all without saying fare¬ 
well. I was little minded to dispute with 
him the possession of those acres; but I 
paid a visit by stealth to the garden of the 
Manor-house, and there dug up the treasure 


AN UNRAVELLED THREAD. 12l 

of which Sir Walter had warned me, and 
conveyed it privily on board my vessel. 

It had to be done piecemeal, for I trusted 
none but myself; but when my sea-chests 
held all those chalices and monstrances and 
golden candlesticks, we weighed anchor one 
night of storm, and sailed from Youghall 
without so much as farewell to my Lord 
Boyle. However, it comforted him doubt¬ 
less that I never spoke of the trust, but 
disappeared from his world that stormy 
night as though I had gone on a witch’s 
broomstick. 

I had fain given mine uncle’s bones 
burial, but that might not be; so I left him 
in the consecrated place where he had lain 
so many years—to the birds of heaven and 
the angels. 

But for myself, I and my sea-chests were 
put ashore at a little French town, from 
whence in due time I made my way to 


122 AN UNRAVELLED THREAD. 


Douai, and restored the treasure to Her 
from whom it had been taken. And since 
Tyburn Tree had so greatly added to the 
glorious throng of the martyrs, and the 
ranks were thinned of those who would fol¬ 
low in their footsteps, I asked the Fathers 
of the English College to accept me among 
them, which of their graciousness they did; 
for I was grown sick of the world. And who 
cares that Father Walter is pock-pitted and 
hath one blind eye? 

Once I had cared only to he of the flower 
of knighthood. How all my dream is that I 
might some day earn that greeting of St. 
Philip to my forerunners in these gray 
halls— Salvete, flos martyrum! 


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O 


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Claude Lightfoot. 

Harry Dee. 

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1 00 

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o 85 
o 85 
o 85 
o 85 
O 85 
O 85 
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9 


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